Precious
by Rose Mello
Summary: The battle has been won. There is finality and acceptance in his eyes, but this cannot be how it ends. "Bilbo Baggin's life is more precious than that even of a King, be it the one under the Mountain or otherwise." This cannot be how it ends. Or, the one in which Bilbo is the one at death's door. One thing is certain , Thorin Oakenshield will stop at nothing to save his Hobbit.
1. Chapter 1

His hair flutters with the strengthening howls of the wind and fly past his sharp features. Dark dirty strands, matted and knotted with drying blood stain his skin and he can taste the essence of something bitter and copper on the edge of his tongue, and feels his bones weighing more than they have ever before beneath the worn and broken layers of his flesh. The sword feels as heavy as the Lonely Mountain itself, but it is soaked in the crimson blood of Azog the Defiler and Thorin cannot bring his fingers to unravel themselves from the unshaped and dirty hilt with just as much stubbornness as that of which his eyes refuse to leave the sight of the dying orc; choking on the source of his life before him. He is grasping at his throat where pitch black darkness is spreading, and his knees are colliding with the stained soil beneath him as Thorin watches with a twisted sense of finality. He knows this is a sign if he had ever seen one so clear and true and relieving, and when he is able to pull his gaze from his most vile enemy he sees what the end has brought.

Bodies of allies and enemies alike lie strewn as if toys from a child's box; old, and withering and forgotten. It does not take long before the sword is slipping from his fingers and his eyes searching eagerly for members of his Company and he cannot help but hope that they have all survived- because such significant lives should not be lost after such a long and perilous journey.

His legs do not move, but his orbs do. They do and something breaks free from his throat when he sees them- the rest of his Dwarven Company, grim and filthy and bloody but nonetheless very much alive. They are leaning on one another and supporting each other and he can count every single one of them as they tread towards him across the field of battle.

All except one.

His breath hitches as he searches for a flash of pale skin and curls of hazel, delicate bones and determination glimmering in the brightest orbs Thorin had ever laid eyes on. He is searching among the Company, because surely they would not leave him behind. They would not leave behind their Burglar, their Hobbit, their Bilbo.

But as they inch closer he can see Kili smiling and his gaze filtering over Thorin's shoulder and the King forces his exhausted body to twist back.

And there he is; a shining beacon within a valley of death and desolation. He looks worn and weary and he is far too pale for Thorin's liking, but Bilbo is there and he is alive and smiling and close enough for Thorin to take several strides and wrap his strong arms around him and never let go.

Bilbo is sheathing his sword- marred and dirtied with black and forgotten innocence- and he is nearing- so close now. Thorin feels a smile- so unreal and glad and unbelievable happy- stretching at his lips and he moves to meet his Hobbit halfway. He turns completely and takes a step and then there is chaos.

No one sees the dagger in the dark.

The moon is shining a light on a flash of silver and Thorin can feel his throat tightening and his head spinning faster than the weapon flung from the grip of a dying orc.

Someone cries out behind him- Bifur or Bofur he thinks, but at this moment he does not care. He cannot care.

There is silence and it seems almost unreal. It is as if everything had frozen then- in that one moment wherein Bilbo's smile turned into a pained, wet gasp and the long dagger sheathed itself into his chest through his back and right over his beating heart.

Thorin does not feel his legs move.

But Bilbo was frozen, his lips parted and his eyes widened to reveal innocence the King had not seen since he had looked in the mirror as a young Dwarfling. There is a single moment in which no one does a single thing- and then it is hell and chaos and a pandemonium as Bilbo wavers and his knees are hitting the soil so hard his entire thin form trembles terribly.

But by then Thorin is at his side- unsure of how, or when, but that he simply is- and he is on his knees and his arms are bereft of the weariness and the exhaustion because catching and cradling the Hobbit's fragile body is all his mind is telling him to do at the moment.

And so he does, and he holds Bilbo close as the dagger shifts and he gasps, his precious crimson blood leaving a trail of red across his torn and worn attire and Thorin's arms.  
He is struggling to breathe and there is more blood dripping from his lips as his tips his head further into Thorin's arms and that is when the King finally finds his voice.  
"Bilbo…" It is as soft as the quietest whisper and yet laced with the utmost urgency. He swallows desperately because this cannot- thiscannotbehappening- not now, not when they were so close, this-cannot-be-happening.

"Help! Someone! Healers! Help him!" He barely recognises his own voice above the ragged breaths his Hobbit is drawing with a growing desperation. His eyes are fluttering close and Thorin is saying something- except he does not know what- something similar to hang on, my Hobbit, and Bilbo please, breathe and he is begging as he had never done so in his life.

"Thorin…" It is light and pained and he hears it as the loudest thing across the now raging battlefield. Bilbo's small hands clutching to his coat as if it were his life-force. His eyes are wide and Thorin can see his fear and his acceptance and his apologies shining from within as clear as the dagger protruding from his chest.  
He does not know how much time has passed (or if any has), but Bilbo's eyes are shutting and his harmonious voice is drifting and Thorin has never been more desperate in his life because this cannot be how it ends. This cannot be what happens. This cannot be it.

He almost does not notice Bilbo slipping from his hold and into that of a healer because all he can see is the red of his Burglar's blood drying on his arms and when he does look up, all that is left to greet him is the healer's retreating form and the glint of sliver from its stand within flesh.

And suddenly, nothing else matters.


	2. Chapter 2

All he is able to do is hold his breath.

The tent is small and worn and he is sure that beneath its filthy scarlet folds that it is crowded beyond measure. The night is dark and a pale silver illumination is all the light they are given to guide their search for ally survivors from in between the bodies of the dead. There is a certain stench, Thorin notices, not similar to the one he had sensed in the midst of battle; it is not one of blood, sweat and tears, there is no determination lingering and no more loud, howling war cries to be heard throughout the now desolate field. No, rather this is something far more similar to the one thing the King has found himself escaping the entirety of his life; death.

It is the stench of rotting corpses with too much blood spilt; evidence of deterioration.

He shifts outside the makeshift compound and pretends not to hear the cries and declarations of the Dwarven healers (and Balin, Balin will not what to do. He will save him. He will) within. He finds it is not hard to dismiss over the heavy breaths shaking his chest and the undeniably loud beating of his heart from behind its cage of fragile bone. He uses the remainder of his focus to keep his legs from collapsing from beneath him, from his entire body giving in to the bliss of unconsciousness and ignorance.

He closes his eyes and tilts his head to rest against the old fabric, folding his arms gingerly to his chest and feeling more worn than he had ever recalled.

His hands are still crested with the dried blood of his Hobbit, but he could not bring himself to move from his place since his aching and gaining legs had dragged him here.

They would not let him inside the tent, they would not even let him anywhere near his Burglar because _my lord we need the space _and _his condition is dire, there is no room for any margin of error _and _what good is a king who is unable to remain on his own two feet? Go and rest. We will wake you with any news. _(But they do not understand, none of them do). How are they able to expect he will ever leave his place before his is sure Bilbo is well?

He will be king soon, and he will take care of his people. He will be king soon and he will grasp command over his kingdom and his council and devise plans to rebuild his home. But now he is not the King, he is not Thorin Oakenshield of the sacred line of Durin, the champion of the Battle of the Five Armies. He is merrily Thorin of the Company and he is standing outside an old tent full of healers trying to save his Hobbit, and for the moment, that concerns him far more than any kingdom or city or dragon.

It has not been long, he thinks, perhaps an hour at most. He has made it clear to his Company and anyone who will bother enquiring that he will not leave nor will he rest until he has heard news. For a time Fili and Kili remained beside him, but he allowed them to be whisked away to take care of the Kingly duties of which he was unable.

His mind was a cage of madness and chaos, a hurricane of thoughts whirring miles every second and grief weighing down on his shoulders with every silent cry he could imagine escaping from Bilbo's throat as the dagger was removed from his chest.

If anyone found it strange for the King Under the Mountain to be counting every breath outside a (dying) Hobbit's tent, no one mentioned it.

And then there were footsteps.

Soft and almost silent, feet treaded upon bloodied soil with a grace unmatched even among elves. He did not need to peel his eyes open (could not because he saw him, Bilbo and the blood, _somuchblood_, _whyistheresomuchblood_, in the shadows of his eyelids) to know whom now stood next to him.

He did not bother moving when the guest settled beside him, radiating a certain warmth and chill simultaneously.

"Gandalf." The first he had spoken in a while, he recalled offhandedly.

The Wizard did not speak for a short while, allowing a strange and tense silence to pass between the companions. Thorin could almost imagine the anger shining brightly in his friend's eyes. The wrath he thought he would surely find, deeply hidden beneath the layers of age and wisdom and yet no less present than the air which is so thick Thorin is sure that if he takes a breath long enough, he will choke on it.

When he finally does open his eyes and forces his wounded body to tilt his head and gaze at the tall figure beside him, he does not see what he expects.

And then again, when does he ever when it had concerned Wizards?

He allows an exhausted sigh to pass from between his chapped lips and it is a moment longer before the elder speaks, standing completely still and weary from beneath bloodied robes of grey and a tall torn hat. For a second, Thorin allows himself to consider the power and prowess radiating from Gandalf, despite his evident fatigue. The crimson (which is surely not his own) spoiling his clothes but not diminishing his strength any less. For a minute of silence, Thorin considers if anything would have changed had he listened to the wise Wizard at an earlier notice.

(He did not dwell on it too long, because there was still hope, and he refused to allow himself to be entangled within the throes of grief when there was so much life yet to be had.)

When Gandalf finally speaks, it is as if he has been reading his mind.

"You could not have prevented this." And yet, Thorin recognises disappointment when he sees it.

"You do not know that for certain. Had I not begun this, perhaps none of it would have ended this way." Perhaps he would not have to stand outside a tent in the midst of a battlefield which healers worked tirelessly to bring him back his Hobbit from the clutches of death. Perhaps he could have found his voice to apologise. He knows Gandalf does not know this for certain and he hates it.

The Wizard glances at his tired form from the corner of a single grey, storm orb and allows a sigh of his own. A soft sound of resignation, the King recognises.

"Perhaps." There is a pause whilst the world continues in a fluster around them. "It does not do to dwell on what has been lost Thorin-" But Thorin does not allow him to finish.

"He is not lost!" There is a deep assurance in his voice; soft as a whisper and yet as hard as steel. "He is not lost." He repeats far more controllably, "My Burglar will come back to me. They will bring him back to me."

In that moment, he is unsure of whether he is attempting to convince Gandalf or himself.

Another glance. "Perhaps," he says again, as Thorin takes a breath to calm himself, "or perhaps he will lie dying from the poison spreading through his veins. Perhaps the last thought on his mind as he struggles to take his final breath will be of leaving the Shire and all he holds dear to journey dangerously for your sake, of sacrificing so much only so you could have banished him and abandoned him because he saved your life. Perhaps he will wonder if you will ever see past your greed. Perhaps he will wonder if it had all been worth it."

And all his anger leaves him. Thorin is spent and exhausted and he does not feel wrath because all Gandalf has spoken is true. Perhaps his greatest crime has been the wrongs he had committed against his Burglar.

"It does not do to dwell on pity and forget to live, Thorin. It does not do to reminisce over what can never be. It is not the time for such acts. It is the time to live, Thorin, live for your Burglar if you wish the same of him. Rule your kingdom and become the king you were always destined to become, and hope that some of the innocence and life and gentleness has remained within the Hobbit you hold so dear."

For the second time, Thorin wonders if Gandalf is peering through his thoughts and the darkness of his mind.

He dismisses the thought with Gandalf's retreating back, and supresses the urge to call to the Wizard, to demand him to treat his Hobbit because he knows that Gandalf the Grey does not bear the power. He allows himself to linger over the words a slight bit longer, and almost misses Gandalf's final words as he walks away.

"Know what it is you hold most dear. Thorin Oakenshield. For there will be a time when you will be forced to choose between your pride and your precious."

_His precious? _

He wonders what the words him, but before he is able to question him, there is the rustling of tent folds and Balin is stepping from within, his hands soiled with the drying blood of his Hobbit and something Thorin cannot recognise flashing across his features.

He is turned towards him before he realises he has moved, with a silent question on his lips, asking something his voice could never.

The older dwarf looks at him, and Thorin feels his breath catch.

And then he is moving out of the way and Thorin can see within the tent.

His heart stops.


End file.
